The Handshaker (34 page)

Croft arrived outside number 46 where the police had covered the door with yellow, crime scene tape. He looked briefly to number 48 where dim light burned behind closed curtains. Should he call on Humphries? No. A bit of an old woman, Gerry was a friend, a fellow 60s buff, but he was also punctilious, a stickler for the rule of law. After all the publicity, he would more likely call the police than listen to Croft.

He made his way to the rear of the houses and the open track where Humphries and one or two other residents kept their cars. Alf Lumb’s ageing Vauxhall Astra was there. Passing through the broken gate into the Lumbs’ garden, he approached the rear door and more police tape.

Would he gain anything by breaking into the house? He knew its layout perfectly. He had visited the place often enough when working with Sandra. Would there be any clue to The Handshaker’s identity? Would The Handshaker be waiting inside? Unlikely. Even if he had read the message Croft had put up on the Internet, he would not turn up. Open confrontation was not his thing. He was a man of the shadows. Still, there was only one way to find out.

He scoured the rough garden, found a large stone, returned to the door, and looked around. No sign, no sound of anyone. The wind and rain made sufficient noise to shut out other sounds of the night. He drew the brick back and rapped it against the frosted glass of the door’s upper panes.

The glass shattered and was followed immediately by the loud wail of an alarm. Shit. The Lumbs’ never had an alarm. Lights came on in Humphries’ kitchen. Another light came on in the bedroom of the house on the other side. Heart pounding, Croft fled.

The police, he guessed as he ran along the rear track and back onto the street, must have installed an alarm, one of the cheaper ones that operated on volumetric air pressure. Hardly efficient but enough to keep out the ghouls.

Coming back onto Sussex, he slowed down and reduced his pace to a shambling walk. Behind him he could hear voices calling urgently to one another. Neighbours coming out to see what the fuss was. Would he be amongst them? The Handshaker? Too true. He would be there, as innocently worried as anyone else.

Croft was tempted to turn back, join in the throng, but if even one of them recognised him, he would be on his way back to police cell in minutes, and it was vital that he remain free.

47

With the time approaching midnight, The Handshaker drove his car out of the shed with Rehana on the rear seat, buried under an old tarpaulin sheet. He locked up behind him and set off across town.

As he drove down Pennine Road, wipers swishing away the rain, he could look over the mass of tangerine street lighting, picking out occasional white lights of headlamps, the odd blue light of an emergency vehicle here and there, and the pavements lined with the few drinkers out on a wet Thursday.

He skirted around the town centre, picked up Scarbeck Point Road from opposite the Fenton Road Health Centre, and accelerated out to the White Horse Inn, a wide open, semi-rural position, away from the town centre, with few houses, and no onlookers. He parked alongside the recently erected security fence that kept people away from Cromford Mill prior to its explosive demolition. The moment the gates were erected and padlocked, he got the number of the lock and had a key made. Now, aside from the contractors, he was the only man with access to The Point. Not even the security people passed through the gates.

He opened the gates, passed through, got out and closed them again, then drove further along, until he was out of sight of both pub and road. Scarbeck Point had always been useful when he had a woman to deal with. And the addition of security fencing made it doubly safe.

Rehana was conscious when he removed the tarpaulin covering her. He dragged her out of the car, threw her to the grass and as she made to crawl away, he dropped his trousers and fell on her. With his weight pressing her to the ground, he fumbled at the knots around her ankles and freed them. With her legs suddenly free, Rehana tried to kick, but he was too strong for her. Gripping her thighs, he parted them and knelt there.

“Take it, black bitch,” he growled as he entered her.

She was good. Spending into her, The Handshaker felt she was one of the best he had had. He had never screwed an Asian before, she was young, tight, and well worth the daylong wait to take her. Resting on her, regaining his breath, he wondered if she had been a virgin.

Done with her, he withdrew, hauled himself up and straddled her, tore open her blouse, ripped off her bra, and rested his flagging member between her slight breasts. The wind and rain were cold, but he was still hyped up and did not feel it.

He smiled down at her she glared hatred back. “Did you enjoy that?” he asked. “I hope so. It’s the last cock you’ll ever take.”

He stood up, pulling up his trousers.

Her legs suddenly free, Rehana kicked out at him again. He released his trousers, let them fall and caught her ankles. Pressing them to the grass, he reached to the rope, discarded a couple of feet away. Coming to his knees once more, he grasped both her feet with one hand and quickly wrapped them again. Happy that she was adequately bound, he first pulled up his trousers, and then turned his attention to the car boot, where he collected a flashlight and two lengths of rope. The first was a short piece, formed into loops at either end with a two-foot space between them, the second was much longer, one end fashioned into a noose.

He returned to Rehana and placed the short piece on her feet, one loop on each ankle, dragged her upright while he bent and removed her tighter ankle bindings. She was left with her feet tied, but enough slack in the rope to let her walk, not enough to let her run.

Holding her with one hand to her bindings, he removed the rest of her clothing, threw it in the car, and with her naked, guided her down the hill.

He reached the second security fence, moved along it, sure footed in the darkness, seeking the patch of wire he had cut months before, when they first fenced the old mill off. Coming to it, he peeled it back, pushed Rehana through, and followed her, carefully putting the wire back in place.

He tugged her down the steep embankment once more, into the unlit, concrete yard and across to the entrance. Rehana looked up at the building where the windows were smashed and decaying brickwork of the exterior walls towered dizzyingly over them, threatening to smash them down at any moment.

He guided her in and up a flight of concrete steps by the glow of a pocket flashlight.

The core of Cromford Mill had been all but gutted, and they could see the clouds up above through gaping holes in the upper floors and roof. Even the wooden floor they were on was pitted with holes and he had to walk carefully, testing every floorboard with one foot before allowing his weight to fall on it. Once, Rehana went through one of the boards, grazing her shin. Her mouth still taped over, all she could do was shed tears. She uttered no sound.

When they reached the centre of the first floor, he shone the light up for her to gaze upon her destiny. The whole building was criss-crossed with corroded steel girders. Tying her temporarily to an upright, he took his hangman’s rope and threw it over the nearest beam, tying it off expertly to the same upright where she was anchored. Standing on the rotten floorboards beneath the noose, he tested everything with his own weight, then freed her and dragged her towards the rope.

Rehana struggled and wept, trying to fight him off, digging her heels in, kicking as far as her limited freedom of movement would permit, at his shins. As he passed the noose over her head, one strong arm clamped about her waist, she evacuated.

“Filthy fucking wog,” he cursed.

Rehana was beyond modesty, consumed only with the terror of her imminent doom. With his free hand he reached up and pulled the rope tight, then released his grip on her waist. Rehana struggled, wriggled and fought the increasing pressure on her windpipe. He hauled on the rope, lifted her from the ground and while he maintained the weight with one hand, he released the loose bow at the upright girder with the other, then secured it more firmly, taking up all the slack, leaving the policewoman’s feet a foot from the floorboards.

He stroked his already semi-erect member into rigidity and while Rehana danced on the end of the rope, he worked furiously with his wrist until his eyes glazed and he ejaculated on her legs, then rubbed his rod against her soft skin, delighting in the thrilling aftershocks brought on by her death throes.

November 18th

48

Millie’s visit to the BBC had been enlightening.

It wasn’t her first time in the studios. As a young Detective Sergeant working with Manchester’s I.T. Fraud Squad, she had appeared on
Crimewatch,
but this was the first time she had seen the backroom; that area where video footage was edited for broadcast.

She found the News & Current Affairs assistant producer convivial and helpful and once she realised that Millie was not asking for the identity of sources or other confidential information, she was only too happy to help, digging out and running all the previous day’s footage from Allington Woods and the entrance to Oaklands.

Millie asked for the first footage from Oaklands’ drive and learned that it was taken at 10:25, about fifteen minutes after she and Shannon had left, the length of time it had taken the crew to move from Allington Woods and set up at the bottom of Oaklands’ drive. There was no sign of Rehana Begum and yet she had arrived before Millie and her boss left. Could she have been in the house or at the rear?

She then asked to see every piece of fresh footage taken along the drive and Rehana was on none of them.

Leaving the BBC studios at ten she drove quickly back to Scarbeck where she found the CID room a hive of activity after the receipt of another note.

“Croft’s not only gone AWOL, but he’s rubbing our noses in it,” Shannon whined, “as you’d know if you were here for the briefing.”

“I had other things I needed to follow up, sir,” she excused herself, “and I have to be out again before eleven.”

She studied the note, keeping her expression blank. If she had any doubts about Croft’s innocence after her visit to the BBC, they were dispelled when she read it.

I left it there in the dark

Do vets roger has Cunny Joe D

Like u hang ’em bare, swinging so.

Rawl tarn fez didn’t do it.

Shark hen death did.

Cliff or Tex an amateur

I am the master.

She was nowhere near as skilled with anagrams as Croft, but the third line leapt at her.
U hang em bare
… Rehana Begum.

“Sir. This line here, I think Rehana –”

“We know,” interrupted Shannon. “We worked it out. Our linguistics boys are working on the rest of it. It confirms that Croft doubled back to Oaklands. We haven’t gone public on her disappearance and who else knew she was there. Now the bastard’s imitating the notes we got from The Handshaker.”

Millie chewed her lip. Should she say anything? She could think of a thousand reasons to tell Shannon what she had learned, but no reason not to, and yet she did not want to tell him. She did not want to get into the argument again because she did not have time for it and because Shannon would want to know how she had come by her information. Croft had indicated in his text that if he saw another car at the rendezvous, she would not see him, and she instinctively knew that he was resourceful enough to avoid them. If they turned up
en masse
, he would simply disappear and that would leave the inquiry following the blind alley with Shannon in the lead. The only hope of getting it back on track was to persuade Croft to come in and persuade Shannon to drop him.

“Problems, Millie?” asked Shannon.

“What? Oh, sorry, sir. No, sir, no problem. I have an appointment at eleven.” She checked the clock. “I think I’d better get weaving.”

“A lead?” Shannon asked.

She hedged. “No, sir. It’s, er, personal. It won’t take long.”

Shannon frowned. “See that it doesn’t. The Handshaker inquiry is on the back burner for the moment until we can get Croft in.”

“Yes, sir.” Relieved to be off the hook, Millie left the CID room carrying her copy of the latest note.

As with most towns, Friday mid-morning was actually the quietest time of the week on the roads, with everyone at work preparing for the traditional early finish that would lead to the most hectic afternoon of the week.

Millie took advantage of the lull before the storm to take a leisurely drive out to the university, enjoying the comparative freedom of the open road, but at the back of her mind was a nagging question? Why was she doing it?

When it came to bending and breaking the rules, Ernie Shannon had done more than she was ever likely to, and he rarely displayed any guilt about it. By the same token, she was no stranger to skirting the regulations, but usually it was for the right reasons. A white lie told to a suspect to elicit a confession was one thing, but keeping quiet on the whereabouts of a known suspect and one who was presumed dangerous, was a different matter.